


September 18th

by winchysteria



Series: Destiel Drabbles [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Dean Loves Pie, Fallen Castiel, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, cas loves pie too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/winchysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't actually bake. But Cas deserves a birthday, and Cas deserves birthday pie, and if Dean is the only one around to make that pie, then so be it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	September 18th

**Author's Note:**

> Destiel drabble for tumblr user thewhiskeytango who provides me with the most beautiful prompts known to man. Sorry about how awkward my kissing descriptions are.
> 
> winchysteria.tumblr.com

Of course, Cas wasn’t really ever born. Dean assumed he was formed at some point a few billion years ago, but God only knew (literally) what date that might have been. There was Jimmy Novak’s birthday, too, but Cas still went rock-still for a second whenever anyone mentioned the guy, so that sounded like a bad idea on several levels. The date he fell, maybe, except which one? And wouldn’t that just be unnecessarily painful? But they were sitting around the table in the bunker and nobody seemed ready to leave and Sam somehow had known instinctively that he could push this, that Cas needed to have this very human possession for himself. “Just pick any day you want, Cas. What birthday do you want?” he’d said, and then waited.

Finally, after pushing the last of his spaghetti around his plate for a minute, Cas had nodded just slightly and said “September 18th.”

And that was that, at least for the moment. Cas’s birthday was September 18th, and everyone went back to work, and 10% of Dean’s brain was permanently assigned to considering the fact that Cas had chosen the day he’d dragged Dean out of hell.

That was why, late in the night of September 17th, Dean was fussing around in the bunker’s kitchen with flour-covered hands and a growing urge to just use the damn pre-prepared crust in the fridge. 

Sam was off on a research binge, of course, the third solo run he’d been out on since the long and painful “you do not get to make my choices for me” conversation following the Gadreel debacle. (There still wasn’t a concrete plan for spell reversal, but Sam and Garth were working on every lead they found. Dean was on a recovery period of salt-and-burns to distract himself until the heaven ordeal required less bookish work.) Dean knew he remembered the day and would call, but birthdays were never a big deal in their family, so there wasn’t going to be some kind of party or anything. Unfortunately this meant that Dean was all on his own for his one celebratory gesture.

Pie.

He deeply regretted the decision to make a pie instead of just a cake from one of those box mixes. Dean could do burgers, he could do sandwiches and pasta and anything you could make on a grill. He’d even learned to do enchiladas and stir fry, recently, and was sort of at the stage where he could make anything there was a recipe for.

But not baking. 

Dear god.

He’d never even touched baking.

Cas, though, deserved something better than a confetti cake from a Betty Crocker mix. The guy had fought his way through hell for him, dealt with Dean’s shit for the next several years, got stuck in purgatory, fell from heaven, and then continued to deal with Dean’s shit. He was even on his longest-ever stint of not disappearing, and Dean was starting to think that this time it was going to be for good. He deserved a goddamn homemade blueberry pie, something Dean knew for a fact was just behind burgers (which would be dinner tomorrow) in Cas’s esteem.

So Dean furrowed his brow and got back to rolling out crust with a vengeance.

He’d started at maybe eleven at night. It was two in the morning before he finally got a functional crust, one that didn’t fall apart like the first two attempts or get way too elastic like the one after that. He couldn’t even remember what had happened to any of the ones in between, but he achieved victory with the last of the flour in the bag. It wasn’t even close to circular, and it was lumpy as hell and sort of drooping over the edges of the pie pan, but it had happened. He dotted it with butter, filled it with the blueberry mixture that had been sitting on the counter for several hours, slapped the other crust on tap, slashed a few holes in it, and popped it in the oven at what he was relatively sure was the right temperature.

A little less than an hour later, Dean jerked awake to the smell of smoke and the sound of a dinging oven.  _"Shit, shit, shit,"_ he said under his breath, opening the door to let out a sooty puff of air that had him coughing and waving pot holders in front of his face. Through watery eyes, though, the sucker didn’t look too damaged. A little burnt. Not bad, though.

He reached in and grabbed the pan with one mitt-covered hand. As he kicked the oven door closed behind him, the pie started to tilt, and without thinking he tried to balance it with his other hand. 

If the roar of “ _JESUS FUCK_ " wasn’t enough to wake Cas up, the pie tin clattering on tile floor definitely was. Dean heard him bump into a few walls (he never woke up very well) before striding into the kitchen with a look of alarm.

Dean grimaced up at him from the floor where he was still trying to recover the chunks of pie that had escaped onto the floor. Cas just looked confused. Kind of adorable, too, as Dean had started to let himself admit a couple of months ago, blue eyes still a little puffy and hair in tornado-blown levels of messiness.

"Dean."

The guilty party sat back on his heels. “Heya, Cas.”

Cas blinked once, slowly. “What is going on.”

"Ah. Happy birthday?" Dean tried.

"You did this for my birthday," Cas said, as if processing it very slowly.

Dean huffed and gestured to the mess. “Yeah, well. Sorry about that. I tried.”

"Do not  _apologize_  for this, Dean,” Cas said, still walking the line between ‘mortician’ and ‘Grumpy the dwarf’ as he shuffled over to the mess.

Dean just looked down at his blueberry-covered hands and felt his ears start to burn as Cas crouched and began to pick through the splatters of fruit. “I’m, uh-” he began.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas interrupted, voice more gravelly than usual. Dean looked up to see Cas smiling at him in that quiet way he did when he couldn’t get his face to do anything else, and his heart jumped directly into his throat.

"Nobody has ever done this much for me," Cas continued. "No one has ever-  _been_  like this to me.”

The angel’s gaze had darted away at some point during his last sentence, but Dean waited for it to come back as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I’d do it again,” he said. “I would do it tomorrow and every day after that until I’d need your help walking to the kitchen.”

Cas’s eyes met his again. They were sure and steady and for once Dean didn’t feel the itch to look away. Instead, he leaned forwards, kneeling in the blueberry muck on the floor, and pressed his lips to Cas’. It was soft and full of aborted intent and over as soon as it started. When Dean pulled away, losing his confidence, Cas was frozen, eyes closed and head forward like maybe he’d tried to follow Dean’s mouth. There was a long, silent moment. Dean felt like sticking his own head in the oven.

But then Cas was back online, one hand wrapping around the back of Dean’s neck and the other shoving the pie away as he kissed Dean again. It was still soft, but this time it was persistent and sure and overwhelming as Dean curved into Cas and gripped his hips like he had no plans to let go of him ever again.

Eventually, the angel climbed out of his lap. They ate the blueberry mess with spoons, sitting side-by-side against a cupboard, and Dean was was glad he’d tried the stupid pie after all. Glad of it then, and glad of it every time he leaned down that day and could still taste it on Cas’s lips.


End file.
